The Art of Breaking
by StrayAshes
Summary: [Artist!Kurt] "I blame it on Blaine" Kurt blurted out absentmindedly, without even realizing he was speaking. Tomorrow was going to be a long-ass day, after getting this drunk. A flash of his once-forgotten high-school friend's naked back and butt crossed his mind. "Yeah." - Or, Kurt Hummel is a talented student at the New York Academy of Art, and Blaine offers to model for him.
1. 1: Blame Blaine

Honestly, Kurt barely knew where he was.

For sure, he was kind of feeling way too much blood rushing into his head, making his temples throb slightly in time with his heartbeat, but he still couldn't find in himself the strength to _actually_ get up and sit straight. There weren't many straight things about him in general, and even fewer when he was absolutely _wasted._ Which, he was.

The lying upside down on the couch factor – long legs sticking out obnoxiously and hair merely inches away from the carpet, his usually pale skin red because of the blood rush paired with sweaty skin on his forehead – kind of rendered him a trashed mess of limbs and sticky clothes, something out of an abstract painting. Or worse, out of a dumpster.

However, a mess inside a mess looks completely at ease – or so he convinced himself while considering this situation, given the bunch of other people strayed onto different surfaces of the apartment smelling like alcohol, pot and (weirdly) like coconut. That one was probably Rachel's fault.

"Please," Mercedes' voice, feeble for once in her life, said from somewhere on Kurt's right side. Or was it the left? Kurt couldn't tell anymore. The world was flipped upside-down and wildly spinning and he was afraid it wasn't gonna stop for a while. "Please somebody remind me how the hell did we end up in this situation".

"You mean you being drunk and drooling on the chair?" came Sam's voice, drowsy and distant.

" _All of us_ being drunk, _high_ , and drooling on _m_ y things, actually" she snapped back, then winced.

"I blame it on the Nyada" Rachel chimed in, looking somewhat pained, probably replaying something crazy her teachers did. Kurt forced himself to move his gaze upwards and meet her figure, only to find his friend lying on her back upon the carpet, a couple meters away from him, hands dropped on her stomach and wide, unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers in the world.

"I think I'll just blame it on the alcohol" Santana said, her face partly covered by a pillow, and nobody contextualized. She was the kind of person to get drunk without a real reason to do it, but just because the alcohol was good – and mostly free. Nobody judged her anyway, it'd be at their own risk.

"Kurt". Being addressed, Kurt moved his eyes again, looking back at Rachel and meeting her expectant gaze to discover she had abandoned the ceiling in favor of staring at him in an alienated way, like she was seeing him for the first time. "Is it me or is it you that is lying upside down".

Kurt blinked slowly, thoughtful. It was him. Wasn't it? Hard to tell anymore. "No, it's you. You're lying on the ceiling".

She considered him wide-eyed, then looked back at the ceiling. "Shit".

"Rachel just swore".

"We heard".

A giggle, and then silence was cast for a couple minutes.

"I blame it on Lord Tabbington. He sold the apartment for drugs. The elf living under our carpet told me".

"I don't think your cat's the only one on drugs, Brittany".

"I blame…." Sam closed his eyes and started humming like he was deep in thought, except he probably wasn't.

"I blame it on Blaine" Kurt blurted out absentmindedly, without even realizing he was speaking. He was still feeling submerged deep into a clouded haze, unsure whether it was because he was still drunk or because it was the beginning of an inevitable hungover. Tomorrow was going to be a long-ass day. A flash of his once-forgotten high-school friend's naked back and butt crossed his mind. Being an artist was tough. "Yeah. I blame Blaine".

Mercedes clicked her tongue. "You cant blame a stranger, Kurt".

"He's not. Well. Not… _really_ ". Kurt blinked a couple times, thoughtful. It tasted funny on his tongue. "It sounds funny though".

"What does".

"Blame…" Kurt repeated, his voice distant and weird. He should probably get up already. "…Blaine".

Rachel just hummed, like she agreed, or maybe she just wanted to hum.

"Blame Blaine. Blaine blame. Blamain" he murmured dumbly, mostly to himself, feeling content like he just invented the best of puns when it wasn't even a pun at all.

Sam clicked his tongue. "I need some water".

"Don't say water, I've been needing to pee for over an hour"

"Ruin my carpet and you're – ah fuck, my head – you're… so fucking _dead_ "

If the arguing evolved somehow, Kurt didn't know, because he blacked out soon after. Hours later he remembered a glimpse of himself jerking awake and falling– face-first and scared shitless – on the floor, then hands touching him and voices laughing high-pitchedly and way too loudly. At that point, everything returned to be black and confused again.

When he woke up several hours later, he was surprisingly at home, in his bed, on top of the covers, fully – or mostly, at least – clothed. Always a good sign; experience taught a lot. He still smelled like sweat and alcohol but, incredibly, no signs of vomit. Nor anything _worse._

Sighing, Kurt held his head between his hands, massaging his temples and helplessly willing away the headache _and_ the vague nausea, a whiny complaint on the tip of his tongue, something along the lines of "I ain't gonna drink ever again", but he had lost count of how many times he had told himself so and punctually failed for a reason or another. So he just gave up and stayed silent, trying instead to lift himself up very, very slowly into a sitting position, his vision spinning wildly and his limbs aching. He was probably sporting some kind of livid on his forehead, too, thanks to his drunken determination on staying upside-down on Mercedes' couch, which he really hoped he didn't ruin or he would never hear the end of it.

He wondered if Sam eventually did ruin the carpet in the end, but it was a fleeting thought.

His apartment was pleasingly silent, just the sound of little drops falling somewhere in the bathroom and the muffled chaos of traffic from the street below, seemingly far-away yet still so close.

Kurt closed his eyes again, wishing for the hundredth time he could magically be transported somewhere else where it could be really, totally silent, just for a couple minutes. Somewhere where humanity didn't reach, with no light and no time and no responsibilities, just…peace. Some other place where he would be able to think or not think at all, while breathing in clear, unpolluted air and just _be_ , just exist.

He wished he could paint something like that. Something that deep, primal and philosophical, meaningful yet meaningless at the same time.

Idly, he wondered if he should just…take a canvas and paint it with a dark, thick layer of black.

Idly, he realized it was too early and he was too hungover to think about this kind of stuff. So, he shoved it in the back of his mind for later contemplation.

The matter at hand was getting up, change his clothes (because he didn't think he would be able to survive in this outfit any longer), wash his teeth and shower thoroughly and then drink and eat something. Honestly, he had no idea what time it was but the thought of looking for his phone and power up the screen already hurt his eyes, so he chose against it and decided that, whatever the hour, he wanted breakfast so he was going to have it.

His home, his life, his rules.

He felt like eating pancakes, and while stumbling toward the bathroom, he hoped a hot shower would take away the rest of his headache and general dizziness, so that he could cook himself something without burning his apartment down.

Before he reached his destination he grabbed a change of casual clothes and decided that he was not going to style his hair up like he usually did because, after all, today he had no reason to leave this house, so nobody was ever going to know. Whatever.

His phone decided to go off on that same moment, starting to vibrate (it stayed on vibration or on silent, no other option. He couldn't stand obnoxious ringtones) somewhere in his bedroom, and Kurt wasn't sure whether he was sad or happy at the idea that he hadn't left it at Mercedes' apartment. He definitely wasn't a loner, not per se, but there were times when Kurt wished he could be the last human being on Earth, for at least a couple of days. No one calling him, no one wanting things from him, no one looking at him weirdly if he randomly decided to run down the street in his underwear. Or naked.

Don't misunderstand him, he _loved_ clothes and fashion and he was _nowhere near_ a nudist or other weird shit like that, but an Art student life was hell and so very stressful, and there were situations that made him want to give up everything and shed himself off of every weight he could feel, physically and mentally, and then run away and scream profanities in front of people. There was something incredibly therapeutic just in the thought alone.

His phone went silent, and Kurt realized he hadn't moved from his spot to even try and locate the thing and maybe answer, or just see who the caller was and _then_ maybe, just maybe, answer.

Blinking rapidly, Kurt sighed once again and went to look for the damn object, eventually finding it simply abandoned at the end of his bed, partially hid between the creases of his sheets. As soon as he took it in his hand, it went off once more, flashing Rachel's name and a ridiculous pic of her he took their first day in New York, but he startled and dropped it. Luckily (right?) it just feel back on the soft bed, bouncing slightly.

Frowning, Kurt contemplated whether to just leave it be and go for the shower, or take it back up despite his frustration. Did Rachel deserve his voicemail? That was a tricky question. Depended on the day.

At length, Kurt sighed one more time and answered the call. "I hope this is important" he said groggily, opting against a casual Hello because he was childish and nervous and he smelled. Checking if his change of clothes was still around his other arm, Kurt started moving towards the bathroom and the hot water calling seductively for him.

On the other end of the line, something rustled and Rachel said "Kurt", in a reflective, pensive way, like she had been thinking about something for some time. Also, she wasn't in the mood for Hellos too, apparently. Her voice was weak and for once it didn't sound like the voice of a singer at all. She probably was still pretty hungover, too, Kurt remembered distractedly.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Kurt saw he kind of looked like a mess himself, hair sticking up in improbable directions and his skin paler than usual. He frowned. "Yeah?"

A beat. "Who the hell is Blaine".

Kurt stumbled and slipped on water and then he was falling, painfully hitting his toes against the bathtub and fleetingly hoping he died in the process.

He didn't.

His phone slid away somewhere on the white smooth floor, but Rachel heard for sure the long, decorated flow of swearing and fucks and hells that fell from Kurt's lips in rapid succession.

Somewhere else in New York, a wide-eyed Rachel Berry wetted her lips and tentatively said: "Kurt? Kurt are you… are you okay?".


	2. 2: Instinct

Holding the ice pack to his head, Kurt scowled and tried to remember when exactly had his life started to get so stressful. 'Dreams take sacrifice', his dad had said months and months before. Kurt wondered if a dead son was part of the sacrifice he was referring to… Probably not.

Kurt briefly imagined if he really _did_ die, picturing his neighbors faces when they would have found him sprawled cold and pathetically lifeless on his bathroom floor with shitty hair and dirty clothes.

Ugh. No, definitely not how he had fantasized his own departure.

"Are you sure you don't want to go the hospital?" Rachel said tentatively, raising her hand toward him before dropping it back on her lap, like she thought he might be able to bite her or something, if touched. Maybe he could.

"Absolutely fucking not" he spat back vehemently, making her wince. Kurt had always been mean and sharp-tongued in his own, sassy way like every respectful artist should, but he usually kept it to a minimum – or a medium – in favor of acting in a more controlled, elegant way. However, considering the swelling on his head and his bruised ego, she could sympathetically understand.

Soon after he had fallen spatting profanities, he'd gone completely silent and unresponsive for a while, consequently making Rachel panic and imagine every possible worst case scenario she could come up with, definitely not ready to lose one of her best friends this soon. Her mind had stuttered to a halt and blacked out so much she couldn't even remember the emergency number to call for help, but then a low, whiny moan had come from the other end of the line (agonizing, but alive), and Rachel had finally felt her heart regain its beating.

Kurt had muttered something similar to "Please stop freaking out, oh my god" through gritted teeth, then he'd tried to prove her he was relatively fine, but she insisted on coming over to his place and check on him herself and be ready in case he suddenly passed out – emergency number already dialed on her phone, this time. Head-concussion was a serious matter, after all.

Call her over-protective, she wouldn't budge, because she was determined on being a good friend, and even a mother, if the situation requested as much. Taking care of an artsy best friend constantly on the edge of a breakdown was tougher than normal people thought: late night phone calls about drinking paint by accident had happened, alongside rushed races to the closest hospital, not to mention that time he almost burned down the apartment trying to set fire to a couple canvases he didn't really like.

Through the years, he had helped her out a lot, too, like supporting her over the phone in the middle of the street when she panicked after accidentally bumping her car against her teacher's, or when she thought she was definitely going to die before she could even make it big in Broadway that time she caught pneumonia.

Luckily, they both lived in New York.

They even thought about moving in together for a period, whereas they both had particular work to do and busy schedules and neither of the two had any significant other at the moment, but they were afraid that would've ruined their friendship and made them go completely batshit crazy one and for all. In short, they were okay with taking a lot of taxis.

"It's just, that seems like a considerable bump you took there. I don't want you to feel sick all of a sudden, and you never know with this kind of stuff. Once, another student in my class accidentally fell hitting her head and then she like, threw up all ov–"

"Goddammit Rachel, just shut up".

"Okay okay, I got it" she sighed, raising her hands in defeat. She managed to stay shut and put for less than a minute, anyway. "Do you want more ice?".

This was Kurt's turn to sigh heavily and shake his head, before wincing and regretting the movement. He lowered the ice pack and tried to lightly touch his forehead, craving for a mirror and never wanting to see his face ever again at the same time. "It's nothing, I promise. I've gone through a lot worse, believe me", he paused, considering. "My foot kind of hurts more, actually".

She chuckled, resting her head on one hand and smiling slyly. "Oh, I do believe you. Remember that one time we _both_ fell down the stairs with like, five bags toppling over with us?"

"Oh god, of course I remember. We looked like a tram just ran over us. Those bags kind of saved our lives probably…", although they most likely wouldn't have even fallen in the first place if it hadn't been for the heavy bags, his mind offered. Kurt shrugged. "I was helping you move in into your new apartment, right?"

Rachel smiled warmly, recalling the old memories. It had been changeling and new, and she had been grateful she had had Kurt by her side. Everyone else kind of bailed on her that day, probably conscious of the amount of bags and shit she carried with herself.

She shook her head, getting up from her spot on the bed and heading to Kurt's kitchen. "How about coffee?".

"That sounds wonderful" Kurt replied smiling crookedly, finally feeling a bit more light and relaxed. The hungover had almost completely gone away, he survived through a near death experience and his friend was with him keeping him company, so he was fine and had every right to let himself smile a little. He got up too and put the ice pack down on his nightstand, promising himself to get rid of it later. "Thank you, by the way".

"It's nothing, and you know it dear", came her easy reply from the kitchen, right when the low sound of the coffee maker started rumbling. Kurt lazily looked around, then he convinced himself to finally head to his bathroom and change clothes – this time controlling thoroughly that there were no puddles on the floor.

Soon after he padded to the kitchen to find out Rachel had just placed two coffee mugs on the table, and she greeted him with a soft smile as soon as she noticed his arrival. They both knew so well each other's places that they moved easily in them, chill and comfortable.

However, when they both were settled on their chairs, mugs in hand, a strange and quivering silence fell over, as if soaked up with expectations. It usually didn't happen, unless they were fighting, so Kurt quickly tried to remember what could have happened, but came up blank. Yesterday's night was a blur and this morning kind of was, too. He remembered waking up feeling dizzy and groggy and then Rachel calling – the same Rachel that was now staring at him intently over the brim of her mug.

Kurt swallowed, suddenly feeling uneasy, and wondered if he forgot some very special holiday. It wasn't her birthday, was it? It wasn't his either, right? He took a cautious sip, then lowered the cup. "What?".

Rachel raised her brows so high they almost disappeared under her bangs. "Don't fool me, Hummel. The question I asked this morning still counts"

Kurt blinked slowly, realizing he was definitely missing something here. "What question".

Rachel gave him a disbelieving side look, but frowned when his expression remained blank and kind of lost. Refraining herself from suggesting the hospital again, she settled on rolling her eyes, still thinking he was bullshitting her. "The question I asked you before you lowkey tried to kill yourself".

She waited for some kind of bell to ring in him but he didn't budge in the slightest. She sighed dramatically. "I don't remember much from yesterday, I'll give you that, and you probably don't, too, but there is one thing _I_ remember _very well_. Which, it's you sputtering something about 'blaming Blaine'. So…."

Kurt's eyes went suddenly huge.

"Who the _hell is Blaine"._

And it all came back. Or, most of it. Kurt recalled lying upside down on the couch and watching Rachel and drooling slightly and rambling nonsense that _apparently_ involved the mention of _Blaine_ , which was absurd because, as Mercedes had promptly supplied, too, he actually _was a stranger_. Why, for the life of him, had he said that stuff? For fuck's sake.

He let his head fall between his hands with a loud smack, wishing he could disappear. "Oh, fuck".

"Is he someone that's bothering you?" she propped with a faint scowl.

"No no, he's just – I…." Kurt stopped, pressing his fingers harder against his eyelids. _I am so –_ "… _fucked_ ", he moaned, probably that tad bit louder than he intended.

Although he couldn't see her in his attempt at vanishing, Rachel's eyes went comically huge and her jaw dropped open. "You _fucked him?!_ ".

Kurt chocked on air with a strangled gasp, his hands flailing around and he missed hitting his mug just for sheer luck. " _WHAT?_ God _no_ , Rachel. It's nothing like that, it's… nothing really. I just didn't want to mention it because I knew you wouldn't let me live it down if I did"

Considering him skeptically, Rachel leaned back and crossed her arms. "Well? I'm waiting".

"I – " Kurt sighed, mimicking her and letting himself fall back on the chair. "It's kind of a long story. Uhm… well, actually… not really. It just started a long time ago, you know? And I thought I completely forgot about him but then the other day…"

"Just spill the tea, Kurt" she interrupted him, but from the glint in her eyes, he could see she was getting far too interested, which annoyed him even more.

Kurt huffed, uncertain, and wondered whether he really wanted to tell this story or if he should make up an improvised lie instead. It was silly – but weirdly, intimately private. It tasted strange and embarrassing on his own tongue, too, but still here he was.

His love/hate relationship with alcohol was getting ridiculous, and was causing too much trouble.

So, Kurt finished his coffee before it got too cold, and then settled in to tell the story of what his damn art project brought him to ask and what an old, forgotten high-school friend unexpectedly decided to reply.

0000  
0000

Once the bomb was dropped, the aftermath was so comical Blaine would have laughed, had it been any other situation.

Mug halfway to his mouth, Sam's jaw dropped open and coffee inevitably started spilling from his lips, making a mess on the table. Frantically cleaning himself with a napkin, Sam fumbled with his other hand and stuttered, clearly at a loss of words. "Wait wait wait…" he babbled in rapid succession, eyeing his roommate like he just turned purple and grew a tail. "You did _what?!"_

"I –", Blaine repeated very, very slowly, like he was trying to be cautious with himself in the first place. "– proposed to pose naked for a guy".

Sam blinked. "You did. What".

Blaine's gaze was vacant and unfocused, staring at nothing in the empty space as he awkwardly stood in the doorway. "I –" the jacket he had under his arm fell to his feet with a thud. "– proposed to pose, naked. For a guy".

"You…" Sam stopped and carefully placed his hands on the table. "No, I am not gonna repeat that again", he reprimanded himself, than moved his bewildered gaze back on Blaine. "Blaine what the fuck".

"I-I know! It's just…"

"Please don't stand there like you just entered the wrong apartment, sit down somewhere. You're making me anxious".

Blaine opened and closed his mouth like a fish, still looking nervous and dazed out, then sighed and let his bag drop down alongside his jacket before he took a sit on the chair opposite Sam. "It probably sounds bad said like that, doesn't it" he grimaced.

"Uhm, duh? At least tell me he's a friend of yours, although it'd be strange because apparently I don't know him and I know all your friends?" he investigated, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward. "Were you keeping him a secret?"

"What? No! You see, it's… kind of complicated but I swear, I have _no idea_ why I proposed to do that, I guess I acted on instinct. It's just that… he is an artist and he's studying here and he looked cute and man, do I _need money_ and also –"

"Waitwaitwat," his best friend interrupted his frantic babbling by raising his hands and looking at him like he was crazy – and coming from Sam, the craziest, dorkiest guy Blaine had ever met, it was a lot. "You're basically telling me you _really_ proposed to pose naked for a _stranger?_ Dude, seriously, what if he turns out to be a stalker? Or like, a serial killer? _"_

Blaine quickly shook his head and tried to calm Sam down, and maybe clear his own mind in the process too. It felt like it was too soon to have this conversation, but Blaine thought he would explode if he didn't get it out of his chest as soon as he opened the stupid door. It had escaped from his lips fluent like a breath, nearly giving Sam a heart attack. "Listen, he's not totally a stranger okay? He's a guy I met and befriended in high school, but then we lost touch and I almost completely forgot about him – and he did too, apparently. Anyway, he seemed cool and he told me about this project of his, we had coffee and spent hours together. Hell, he even saved my fucking life…" he blathered, slowing down at his last words like he himself was only now remembering, and a slight shiver run through his spine.

Sam's eyes went impossibly huge once again. "He did _what_?!"

"Lowkey saved my life" Blaine repeated, looking thoughtful. "Yeah. Guess I forgot".

Sam stared at him like he grew another head. "Dude, you almost _freaking died_ and you _forgot?"._

"I told you, he was nice. Captivating" Blaine added, then shrugged, growing impatient and suddenly feeling too put on the spot. He knew he had been way too impulsive and kind of stupid, but that didn't mean he wanted his best friend to make it sound even worse. "What's the bid deal anyway? I mean, it _is_ weird, I'll give you that, but it's not like I have never done it before. I used to pose as a model for other art schools and academies back in my first days in New York, remember?"

"The big deal is, he's not a safe academy full of bored naïve students, but a _stranger –"_

"We met in high school".

"Exactly, high school! He can still be a stalker or a serial killer for all you know, if not worse".

Blaine tilted his head like a confused puppy. "What's worse than a serial killer?". Sam looked at him pointedly and Blaine pouted, giving himself the benefit of doubt.

"Look, I just want you to be careful and think this through, maybe even convince you to call it quits before it's too late. Usually _you_ are the smart guy between us that tells me off when I do something dumb, so now I want to be here for you, too, okay?" Sam continued after a moment of awkward silence, his voice finally lowering and softening, making Blaine smile slightly despite the mess he created.

"I know Sam, and I… really appreciate it. That's why I'm telling you this, my mind is still…kind of like, in a daze. It happened so quickly but in that moment it felt natural, you know? Does it make sense?"

Sam shook his head and narrowed his eyes suspiciously, looking him up and down like he was searching for particular signs. "Are you sure he didn't drug you or something?" he observed, before sitting up straighter with a wild look in his eyes and a tense grimace in his features. "Oh god, crazy psychopaths drugging their victims is such a serial killer thing to do. He probably already tracked you down to this place, we're going to die".

Blaine rolled his eyes dramatically, stopping himself from snapping irritably. He couldn't believe Sam sometimes. He was his best friend, he was quirky and funny and spontaneous, but also incredibly over-reacting, nerdy and kinda obnoxious. However, Blaine would never trade him for anything in the world. "Dude, relax. I am not gonna jump butt-naked in his apartment _tomorrow_. Actually I was kind of hoping we would spend another night out so he could explain his project to me a little better. Or something".

Sam was silent for a moment. "Or something," he finally echoed sardonically, clearly unimpressed. "Don't tell me you proposed to model for him just to gain a _date_. There are so many other ways man!"

Blaine gasped loudly like he had been slapped, a shrieking ' _What? Of course not!'_ already on his tongue, but the arched eyebrows of his friend convinced him to eat them back. "It's- it's not only that, alright? He seemed nice and he needed help, a help I could give because I have experience. It doesn't really go further than that, okay? Not that I know of …. on his behalf. And, as I said before when you clearly weren't listening, _I need money_. He said he'd pay me, so it'll work while I search for another job" Blaine said, ending the discourse with a small hopeful smile, trying to have Sam on his side instead of against him.

He really, _really_ didn't want to live through another childish "I told you so" experience, but he needed a helpful hand if things went for the worst.

"I –" Sam tried to objectify once more, but then his shoulders dropped and he exhaled slowly, giving up. "Nevermind, dude. Usually I trust your judgement, so….", he said with a shrug, looking up at Blaine and pursing his lips slightly. Feeling pleased by Blaine's bright and content smile, Sam cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "What's your crush's name, by the way?"

Blaine rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "I have _not_ a crush, it just came out all wrong before" he said defensively. "And his name is Kurt. Kurt Hummel" he added, looking down for a moment and suddenly noticing Sam's bright orange t-shirt with the well-know, flashy and cartoony " _SLAINE!"_ logo on it, the one that matched Blaine's own, although his read " _BLAM!"_ instead.

"Maaan!" he whined, standing up on instinct and feeling incredibly guilty and mortified. He figuratively kicked himself. "This was our movie night, wasn't it? Why didn't you say anything?"

Sam just raised his shoulders dismissively, looking completely at ease. "I figured there was a reason you were late, and then you appeared all invested in this new crazy crush of yours, so I –"

"Not a crush"

"– didn't feel like holding it against you and rain on your parade. No big deal. We literally live together".

Blaine grimaced anyway and slumped back on his chair, arms dangling loosely at his sides. "Still. I feel guilty".

"Besides," Sam added after a beat, trying to cheer up his friend again. He stretched slightly, intertwining his hands behind his blond head and grinning deviously. "We have all night to watch a movie. But that won't happen until you put on your T-shirt to match me _and_ spill everything about this Curt Hammer, because honestly, this artist-guy really must be something if you already want to take your clothes off, Rose".

That was the moment Blaine lost it; he hastily got up and threw his hands in the air, heading to his room to get the infamous shirt. "For fuck's sake, Sam" he grunted before he disappeared from view, leaving a very delighted Sam Evans behind.

"We could watch Titanic!"

" _No way!_ ".


End file.
